Merlin, the Mage of the Lake.

Her constellation resembled a beautiful, tranquil lake whose waters were always gently rippling. Now, that constellation was boiling madly like water in a pot.

"Wow, wow, wow..."

She clutched the back of her neck, burning hot with anger.

"What kind of deranged bastard was that?"

The stars listen to human voices.

It was a widely known fact, but the truth was slightly different. There was one more condition attached.

The stars listen to the voices of those with potential.

Not every human voice reached the stars in the first place. Most merely drifted past the Constellations as faint noise. Only the voices of those with potential could become meaningful sentences rather than noise.

*'And even those are nothing more than very faint murmurs...'

* * *

That should certainly have been the case, so why?

Merlin recalled the voice that had rung in her ears moments earlier. It had been remarkably clear. More than merely comprehensible words, it had been distinct enough for her to make out even the mocking intonation.

The first clear voice she had heard in centuries.

The unmistakable will of someone with the makings of a hero.

And the intent that voice conveyed was enough to send Merlin's tranquil lake boiling. It had flatly denied King Arthur's achievements. It had mocked Arthur, the king she had served, as a mere "darling of his era."

"Is he actually insane?"

Merlin's eyes grew bloodshot.

The Sword of Selection, the Constellation who starred in The Life of Arthur, had more worshippers than any other Constellation on the continent. There was no way anyone could be unaware of that.

And yet he insulted Arthur?

With such ridiculous nonsense, no less?

Was he that desperate to die?

Merlin stared down at the earth with her eyes wide. Her gaze could extend anywhere starlight reached. Her eyes darted about, searching for the owner of the voice that had rung in her ears.

But she simply couldn't find him.

She thought she had seen an utterly insolent boy around the time she heard the voice... but wherever she looked, his face was nowhere to be found.

'Did he hide somewhere the starlight doesn't reach?'

It didn't matter.

Go ahead and hide, if you think you can do it for the rest of your life.

"Just let me catch sight of you."

Merlin bit down on her nail with a crunch. Her bloodshot eyes darted about, as though determined not to miss even the smallest trace.

"You won't die an easy death, you little brat."

Whether he was a once-in-an-age genius with the makings of a hero, an apostle of the stars serving another Constellation, or a Sword Master's cherished pupil, none of it mattered to Merlin.

She would simply make him learn the price of insulting her king.

The Mage of the Lake swore upon her own constellation that she would find that insolent little shit and fuck him up.

2.

"Hss, what's this?"

I rubbed the back of my neck.

A sudden tightness at the base of my skull gave me an uneasy feeling. It felt as though someone had sworn to the heavens that they would hunt me down and beat the shit out of me.

'Who could it be?'

Honestly, I'd made quite a few enemies here and there, so there was no shortage of people itching to fuck me up. Well, it was probably nothing. It could be Toos, the pickpocket whose arm I'd broken recently, or Belga the drunk...

Anyway, it didn't seem all that important.

"Whew..."

Shaking off those stray thoughts, I opened my eyes.

"Offen, does this meditation stuff actually work?"

I turned my head toward one corner of the clearing. A shabbily dressed man sat there. He was something like a teacher to me, instructing me in swordsmanship. He slowly opened his mouth to answer.

"Of course. Gathering your thoughts through meditation is the most basic of basics. If your mind wavers, so does the tip of your sword..."

Here we go again.

I shook my head and drew my sword.

"Never mind that. Just watch my swings."

"Tsk. Try showing a little respect for your teacher, you damn brat."

"Then at least put down the bottle you've got glued to your mouth."

I gave Offen a scornful sideways look as he poured liquor down his throat first thing in the morning. Supposedly, he'd been a mercenary of some renown up above before his banishment to the underground city... but every time I saw him like this, I began to doubt that rumor.

A coarse, untrimmed beard.

Shabby clothes and alcohol-soaked eyes.

Anyone who saw Offen would take one look, mutter, "Hmm, a drunk," and move on.

*'Still...'

* * *

I settled into my stance and swung my sword.

'His skills are the real deal.'

The instant I swung, a sharp voice rang across the clearing.

"Too stiff. Relax a little. Tuck your elbow farther in."

It was Offen's correction.

I adjusted my stance accordingly. The effect was immediate. The sound of my sword swings grew a little heavier. I let out a brief murmur of admiration at how the sound had gained weight even though I'd relaxed.

WHOOSH.

I kept swinging, and Offen offered a word or two of advice at a time. This was always how he taught. He never demonstrated a swing or physically corrected my stance, but he did give advice.

*'And...'

* * *

That advice was the real thing.

He might look like a drunk at first glance—and he really was one—but at least when he talked about the sword, Offen became utterly serious.

"Lower your stance."

Just like now.

"Keep your eyes open."

A sharp voice.

"Your breathing. Exhale. You're too tense."

Keen eyes, no longer clouded by drink.

"You're not trying to crush anything with its weight. What you're holding isn't a blunt weapon. It's a blade for cutting. Don't smash down. Swing as though you're brushing past."

Listening to Offen, I swung my sword for a long while. Sweat trickled down my spine.

"Put strength into your legs and step forward. Don't swing with brute force. Watch where your sword goes all the way through."

As I listened to his advice, I thought to myself.

Given the time, this would probably be my last swing. I had a lot to do today.

'Better make the last one clean.'

I readjusted my grip.

Fixing today's advice in my mind, I steadied my breathing. Offen's voice circled in my ears like an auditory hallucination.

'Take a big step forward.'

THUD.

'Steady your breathing. Keep your body from stiffening and watch the sword tip all the way through.'

I exhaled and swung.

A diagonal cut from top to bottom—the most basic swing, barely worthy of being called swordsmanship. Yet the moment I swung, I knew instinctively.

This was different from usual.

SWISH!

The sound of the sword slicing through the air rang out.

I could clearly see the path its tip traced. A silver-white arc drawn cleanly, without a tremor. Only after a slicing sound rang out did I draw a long breath.

"Ack, cough!"

For some reason, the breath I drew was hot. Startled by the hot air, I coughed dryly and turned toward Offen.

"Offen, that one was pretty good, wasn't it?"

A sword strike so clean that even I was surprised.

I asked with a little anticipation and excitement, but Offen was staring at me with an uneasy look. He repeatedly opened his mouth and closed it again.

"Well..."

After a little time passed like that, Offen muttered dazedly.

"Wasn't it pretty good?"

"What's with that vague answer?"

"No, well, it was good. Nice and clean."

"Right?"

I chuckled. Wiping the sweat from my forehead, I slid my sword into its sheath. As I was finishing up, Offen asked me a question.

"Got somewhere to go? Seems like you're finishing earlier than usual."

"Where would I have to go? It's work."

"... Who is it this time?"

Offen's eyes narrowed at once.

I answered with a bitter smile.

"Trixie."

"Trixie from the Lilac Tavern?"

I nodded, and Offen clicked his tongue.

"So the bastard finally crossed the line."

"Looks like Ivan caught him taking kids, cutting their bellies open, and selling them. What else can we do? He has to be dealt with."

"By you?"

"It has to be me. I'm Ivan's hound, after all."

Muttering, "Honestly," Offen took a swig.

"That Ivan makes a brat like you do all sorts of shit. Rotten bastard, rotten organization."

"You're part of Ivan's family too, Offen."

"That's because he kept asking me... Whew, never mind."

Offen waved his hand dismissively.

He meant for me to hurry up and get lost.

I chuckled and started walking.

"Najin."

I'd only gone a few steps.

Hearing my name, I looked back. Offen had set his empty bottle on the ground and was looking straight at me.

"Come tomorrow, too."

"I will. You don't have to tell me."

3.

In the clearing Najin had left behind, Offen slowly rose to his feet. He approached the spot where Najin had been swinging his sword moments earlier.

"..."

Silently, he studied the traces Najin had left. His gaze lingered for a while on the spot where Najin had made his final swing.

"Whew..."

Offen let out a long breath.

Before being dumped into this underground city, he had been a renowned mercenary and a swordsman. He hadn't been skilled enough to hold his own against truly powerful opponents...

But he could at least recognize someone else's level.

Offen mulled over the arc of Najin's final sword swing. The damn kid probably hadn't even realized what he'd unleashed at the end.

'He must have heard it.'

That slicing sound.

He'd probably dismissed it as nothing important. He had cut through empty air, yet there had been the sound of something being cut. There was only one explanation. Offen ran his hand over the ground scored by the sword. It was where Najin's blade had skimmed past.

The ground was hot.

He could feel heat radiating from it.

When he scooped away some dirt, he found that the pebbles mixed into the soil had melted and fused together. An ordinary sword swing could never have accomplished such a feat. Offen's mouth twitched. He knew what this was.

Mana, and a fragment of sword aura.

"Crazy bastard. Learning things I never even taught him."

Realizing his suspicions had been right, Offen gave a hollow laugh. It had already been two years since he'd begun overseeing Najin's sword training at the request of Ivan, the brat's employer and Offen's longtime friend.

Two years. Enough time to gauge someone's talent.

He'd known long ago that Najin had promise. Teach him one thing and he would grasp ten, and more than once, he had figured out things entirely on his own.

*'I knew the kid was a genius, but...'

* * *

He had never imagined it was to this extent. As Offen considered the magnitude of Najin's talent, his expression soured.

"Tsk."

He clicked his tongue.

Because he knew the worth of Najin's talent—and knew that it could never shine in this damned city—Offen muttered irritably.

"Kid, having talent like that here will only make you miserable."

Even in this garbage heap of a city.

Even in this damned city populated by nothing but trash.

Children with light inside them were born.

And it wasn't just Offen who knew how those children would end up. Everyone in the city knew. However brilliant the talent they were born with, no one could leave this city. That was the rule.

In the end, that brat Najin, too, would lose his light and slowly rot away in this city. In other words, he would be dying. Buried among mountains of garbage, rotting away. Knowing that, Offen let out a long sigh.

THUMP.

Offen stomped roughly on the ground.

As he erased the traces of sword aura left in the earth, he thought about how he wanted a drink. A little more than usual.

He was about to leave, but stopped.

Suddenly, Offen raised his head. He had remembered a rumor from his days as a mercenary up above. They said that people with brilliant talent capable of reaching the stars drew the stars' attention no matter where they were.

"..."

A sky studded with ore instead of stars. Looking at the underground city's ceiling, Offen gave a faint chuckle. He found himself ridiculous for entertaining the thought of "perhaps," however briefly.

"If only it were that easy."

It was nothing but a futile dream.

What could the Constellations in the night sky possibly want that would make them look at some brat in an underground city? A rumor was only a rumor in the first place. What would chasing a futile dream do except make him miserable?

"Whew..."

With a sigh that sounded resigned, Offen picked up the empty bottle and left the clearing.

[The Constellation, the Staff of Selection, screams.]

[The Staff of Selection swears upon her star that she will hunt down the insolent brat and beat the shit out of him!]

Never dreaming that a constellation in the night sky was so obsessed with Najin that it was boiling over.